


No One Bests An Orc!

by KwisatchHaderach



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Original Work, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Crack, Dating, Dungeons & Dragons References, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim References, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Fluff without Plot, Generic fantasy world, Human/Monster Romance, Humor, Interspecies Relationship(s), Kilts, Now with baby orcs!, Orc Culture, Orcs, Romance, Satire, Sexy Times, Sharing a Bed, Someone called this "Pratchett-esque" and I love that, The Lord of the Rings References, This Is STUPID, monster girlfriend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:20:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27135832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KwisatchHaderach/pseuds/KwisatchHaderach
Summary: "Presenting Ghorza the Lion-Heart of Clan Muggorah, the Flame-Keeper of the East, Chieftain of the Broken Lands, Slayer of Nightmares, and her husband, Ted," the footman cried.The following account was collected piecemeal and out of order from several incomplete and unreliable sources, but generally follows the lives and courtship of the aforementioned couple.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Female Orc/Original Male Human
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. No One Bests An Orc

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.

The village was small for the area, not so especially small that you wouldn’t notice the town square as you passed through it, but not so especially big that you would pay it any mind if you happened to do so. Its terrain was neither particularly mountainous nor flattened, nor desolate nor forested. In terms of commerce it was average, in terms of population it was standard, and in terms of general political opinion it was stultifying dull. Its most distinctive quality was its remarkable indistinctiveness. In fact, the only thing of interest that would leave any impression in the memories of the typical tourist was the fact that it overlapped the ancestral lands of an old and well-respected local clan of Orcs, which had come about as the result of two clerical errors by a particularly stubborn land surveyor. In consequence, the region would enjoy occasional bouts of turbulence culminating in skirmishes from time to time, which were generally incited by cultural differences, property disputes, or allegations of mail fraud, followed by longer periods of immense prosperity and safety from the closer bond the two lands shared in the aftermath. For the most part, however, relations between the two groups were fraternal, and the forced proximity of the two kinds of being did little to upset, or even enliven the daily existences of most of the residents. The story that follows, which was collected piecemeal from of a series of letters, personal accounts, dubious anecdotes, genealogical records exhumed from the local library, incomprehensible rants, and the inscription on an antique family heirloom sword, is one of the notable exceptions to this rule.  
One of the businesses that occupied the aforementioned town square during the period in question, which was long enough ago that you yourself probably hadn’t been born yet, but no so far back as to not have invented ink and paper, was a café that did a fairly brisk business by virtue of its strategic closeness to the main road. Had you entered this building on a certain day approaching the lunch hour, you would have seen two fairly normal looking humans occupying two of its seats and one of its tables, one fair-haired and rather slim male, and one tall blonde female, both dressed in tunics and breeches that indicated a social standing that was neither particularly well-off nor impoverished. The aforementioned genealogical records would indicate that their names were Theodore Ethelbert and Mary Bosworth. The accounts of their repast, mainly consisting of tea and scones according to what remains of their receipts, would suggest they spoke with an ease, familiarity, and humor that would indicate they were on a date. It is worth noting that such records are often wrong.  
“Really? A whole bottle?”  
“Yup.”  
“You spilled a whole bottle of ink on the seminarian?”  
Theodore (known as Ted to his intimates), sat back in his chair. “Not just a whole bottle of ink, but a whole bottle of the very best carbon, one of the last saved from when the gum trees burned sixty years ago, the same precious stock that the Archmeister is so keen on preserving. And not just onto the seminarian, but directly into his face, with all the deadly accuracy of a Welsh bowman. I’m amazed he’s still alive.”  
Mary giggled. “I’m amazed you’re still alive, the way that man is. He acts like he’s out to burn witches. How did you talk your way out of that one?”  
“I very bravely stammered out an apology and bolted, as he stood there twitching and dripping onto the library’s carpet. A few hours later I was summoned to the prior’s office to offer a formal apology, and I pleaded forgiveness, alluding in the most respectful terms possible to the good seminarian’s unfortunate habit of appearing in doorways without warning. This got me out of hot water with the boss, but I could see the scowl on my opponent’s face deepen even further as I spoke, obscured as it was by the ink-stain.”  
“How very heroic of you,” Mary sighed dreamily. “I’ve always said that guy’s a creep. He got to be a scribe for his penmanship,” a word she punctuated with particular disdain, “not his writing. He’s about as eloquent as a brick wall.”  
Ted chuckled a bit at this, and Mary made, a small, pleased smile at the sound as she lifted her mug to her lips. “I’m not surprised you managed to talk your way out of that, your essays are always so detailed and convincing. I read them sometimes, when I take the new parchments from the scribes’ floor to the library. Yours are always my favorite.”  
“You’re a good writer, too,” said Ted, apparently oblivious to the direction Mary was beginning to steer the conversation. “I read a couple of your annotations when I was helping the prior with that compendium, and I thought they were very good.”  
“Thank you,” said Mary shyly, lowering her eyes a bit, “but yours are far better. You’re truly eloquent. I always look for your pages in the parchment bin, I recognize your lovely handwriting right away.”  
“No really,” Ted insisted, seemingly determined to reflect some of his companions’ praise back onto her, “you’re great, I particularly liked that bit you wrote about the symbolism of the dragon in the story about the treasure hunters, and the exiled king.”  
This did not strike Mary as the kind of response likely to lead to the topic of conversation she was hoping for, so she pulled another question from her arsenal that would leave less doubt as to what she had in mind, and was just about to deliver it when Ted erased all hope for the prospect by abruptly changing the subject.  
“By the way, “ he said, setting down his mug, “have you met Ghorza yet? She’s been by the scriptorium a few times this month.”  
This was precisely the sort of topic Mary had been hoping to avoid, and she deflated a little as she resolved to wait it out, and find another opportunity to make her move.  
“No,” she said, a bit wearily.  
“Oh, maybe you’ll get the chance soon,” said Ted, his eyes lighting up. “She’s supposed to be by later today, I was going to-”  
But just what Ted was going to do was never discovered, for at that moment the doors flew open with a resounding crash that drew all eyes.  
Gloriously silhouetted in the midday sun streaming through the doorway was a tall and well-built Orc warrior, sporting battered armor from which the faintest hint of silver could be discerned under a thick spattering of crimson blood. In one steel-gloved fist she held her helmet, while the other clutched a severed serpent’s head the size of a large bowling ball, which was dripping yet more blood onto the doorstep. Her head was bare, exposing her pointed ears, sallow green skin, wild mane of black hair, and her gleaming tusked smile. While everything about her appearance suggested she was here on some kind of questing adventurer business, the smug light in her eyes suggested there was some amusement she was after.  
After pausing a moment to apparently savor the stunned silence that had risen to greet her dramatic entrance, she proceeded into the café with quick, businesslike steps, making a beeline for Ted and Mary’s table, upon which she unceremoniously plopped the aforementioned bloody monster head.  
“Hey babe,” she said, smirking insolently down at Ted.  
Mary’s face had undergone a rapid metamorphosis from shock to alarm to horror to confusion during the last several seconds, and finished on a look of dawning comprehension as the implications of their new guest’s words settled on her. Ted’s face, on the other hand, had demonstrated nothing but mortified grief throughout the whole sequence, which was now heating into an annoyed glare directed at the gory Orc standing over him.  
“You’re getting blood everywhere,” he remarked pointedly.  
“Don’t worry, it’s not mine,” she winked, before extending her gauntlet towards Mary. “Hi, I’m Ghorza, Ted’s girlfriend.”  
Managing to mute her look of disappointment, Mary returned the handshake with a polite smile. “I’m Mary, we work at the scriptorium together.”  
Ghorza’s hand came to rest on Ted’s shoulder in a familiar way. “Yeah, Ted told me about you. You do vellums, right? I bet you’re wasted down there, they never know how to reward talent.”  
Mary seemed a bit nonplussed by her bluntly casual conversation, while the mangled bit of carcass she had brought bled quietly onto the napkins, but thankfully her social autopilot gave her leave to continue with “Thank you. I’m guessing you’re an adventurer?”  
“Yup,” Ghorza said, popping the “p”. “Also one of the ranking warriors of the Muggorah clan, no big.”  
“Humble braggart,” Ted muttered, his gaze softening as he patted her hand. “What are you doing here so soon, I thought you were sorting out that trouble with the duke?”  
“That’s the trouble right there,” she said, nodding toward the serpentine scalp, which was not so much bleeding by this time as gently oozing onto the table. “Hydra. Ten feet tall if it was a foot. Twelve heads. Wasn’t a thief stealing the grain, it was this little guy eating all the delivery men.”  
“Don’t hydras only have nine heads?” asked Ted with a skeptical grin.  
“Not when they’ve already had three cut off, “ replied Ghorza flirtatiously, as she leaned down towards him. “It’s a shame I didn’t have my faithful chronicler with me to record all my heroic exploits…”  
She punctuated this last remark by giving Ted a peck on the lips, which he returned, before turning back to Mary.  
“I’m sorry I can’t stay, but we’ve got some work to do for the magistrate, and since I’m back early we’ve got extra time we should take advantage of.”  
Ted barely had time to process the telling grammatical shift from singular to plural personal pronouns in the preceding sentence before the hand on his right shoulder swiftly moved to grip his left side, its partner landed on his right side, and he was expertly hoisted up, spun around, and slung onto Ghorza’s shoulder like a sack of flour. From his new position he had an excellent view of his forlorn lunch companion’s incredulous expression as Ghorza carted him away, a look that was mirrored on the faces of most of the other patrons as she exited. Another moment of silence held sway for a moment after the double doors swung shut, before the café burst into raucous laughter and reinvigorated gossip over these antics.  
The barista merely sighed, glanced at the wreckage on their table, and went for her mop. Messy severed heads were just another workplace hazard, she reflected, especially when a sizable part of your customers happened to be Orc warriors.

. . . . . . 

Ghorza had been walking for about ten minutes, the hand supporting her companion now resting comfortably on his behind, before Ted brought up what was on his mind.  
“Do you,” he moaned, his face in his hands, “have any idea how embarrassing that was?”  
Ghorza couldn’t see his face, slung as he was over her back, but nevertheless adopted an exaggerated look of hurt innocence.  
“Embarrass you? You find me expressing my love for you in a public place…embarrassing?”  
“Don’t give me that,” he said firmly. “You were staking a claim on me, like… like a conqueror choosing a war bride or something.”  
“That analogy is sexist as well as inaccurate to what happened. I merely went to surprise my beloved, naively thinking he’d be happy to see me. Instead, I am accused of the most heinous deeds imaginable and cruelly rejected.”  
“You carried me out of a crowded café on your shoulder.”  
“We’ve got places to go, people to see.”  
“We don’t have to complete the manuscript for the magistrate for another week.”  
“Plenty of free time, then,” she purred, giving his rump a squeeze.  
Ted found this terribly distracting as a diversionary tactic, but remained determined to say his piece.  
“I’m never going to be able to look Mary Bosworth in the eye again.”  
“She was flirting with you.”  
“You weren’t even there!”  
“I could tell. She likes you.”  
“Well I like you,” he said definitively, and reached around her side somewhat awkwardly so he could firmly clasp her free hand. “And no amount of flirting from coworkers is going to change that.”  
“Good,” she smirked as she opened the door to their house. “Then you definitely won’t mind what happens next.”

. . . . . . . 

Some time later, as they lay together, a great deal more flushed and naked than they were before, Ted was struck by a horrifying thought.  
“Oh no,” he groaned, clapping the hand not currently pinned under Ghorza to his forehead. “We just left a whole severed Hydra head just sitting on the table back at the café.”  
Ghorza was disinclined to move her head from its current resting position on his chest, which would likely be the result of taking this concern seriously, and so elected to dismiss it with a grunt. “That’s nothing, I saw Durash spill a whole barrel of cider in there at the magistrate’s Samhain party last fall. Hydra blood’s really thin, much easier to wash out.”  
Ted didn’t feel qualified to offer comment on this particular matter, and so was forced to accept Ghorza’s conclusion as he relaxed again. “A whole barrel?”  
“Broke it open with his battleaxe recreating a scene from his last epic battle. He’d already had a bit to drink by that point.”  
“I’m shocked,” Ted murmured as he buried his nose in her hair. “I hope Mary wasn’t too upset. If she does like me, you did kind of rub us in her face a bit.”  
“Yeah,” said Ghorza, stretching like a cat. “But I’ve got it covered. You know that guy who does letters up at the castle?”  
“Durebesh, the court scribe for the Urus?”  
She nodded. “He’s a rather handsome lad, writes very well, and he hasn’t been to the scriptorium yet, so Mary hasn’t met him.”  
Ted started to grin. “You didn’t.”  
“They’re going to bump into each other on Sunday,” she said with a touch of pride. “I may have convinced the leather merchant to deliver the scriptorium’s vellum shipment to the castle by mistake, so she’ll have to go there to pick it up, and Durebesh, being a gentleman, will naturally insist on helping her take it all back…”  
Ted maneuvered himself downwards so he could take her face in his hands and begin kissing her fiercely. “You,” he murmured between kisses, “are…a…tactical…genius.”  
“Strategic genius,” she gasped when they finally broke for air, “but yeah. And now,” she added slyly, wrapping her arms tighter around him, “not only is she going to be occupied with him, but now there’s no doubt in anyone’s mind that you’re all mine.”  
He rested his forehead on hers. “I love you so much, you big softie. You’re my hero.”  
She grinned. “Of course I am. No one bests an Orc.”


	2. The Super Long Origins Chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's super long, my apologies. It shows how Ted (the human) and Ghorza (the orc) met and started dating, and therefore takes place two years or so before the first chapter. Let me know if you like it.

The Archmeister, who was the stout and portly head of the local library as well as the accompanying scriptorium, an institution dedicated to the preservation of historical knowledge and literature as well as the creation of new works, was roused from the highly academic stupor into which he had fallen on this particular Wednesday afternoon by a polite knock on the frame of his currently open office door.   
Ted stuck his head in. “You wanted to see me, sir?”  
“Ah yes, Ethelbert, do come in and take a seat,” he said, and, having been roused into action by the noise, began to absently rearrange some documents on his rather crowded desk.   
Ted sat in the only other chair in the office not currently occupied by a large stack of papers leaning ominously to the right, and waited for him to continue.  
The Archmeister, having rearranged his desk ornaments to his satisfaction, proceeded to push his spectacles a little further up his sizable nose, and scrutinize his guest as though he were a text printed in very small letters.  
“What is the first duty of any scribe, Mr. Ethelbert?”  
“To knowledge, sir,” said Ted, not quite sure where his superior was going with this, but giving it his best shot.  
“Precisely,” said the venerable scholar, leaning back in his chair a bit. “And as such, we are commanded by this sacred edict to do whatever we must for the sake of the preservation and expansion of said knowledge, correct?”  
“I should say so, sir,” said Ted warily, who was beginning to suspect some sort of reprimand in the making, and prepared to marshal his defense.  
The Archmeister studied him for a moment, as though waiting for him to elaborate. When he did not, he simply said “I’m sending you up to the castle.”  
This announcement hit Ted in much the same way that a brick would hit a stained-glass window.  
“To the castle, sir?” he asked, feeling as though he was merely watching someone else speak from a distance, and wondering why that person wasn’t having more of a shocked and panicked reaction to the situation.   
“Yes,” said the Archmeister dryly, scratching his academic beard. “Apparently they need some legal help, of all things. Some of their land deeds back from when the Orcs first settled here were printed by the town, but were written in the original Black Speech. They’re updating their records, and need a notary and copyist certified by the scriptorium to ensure their documents are still valid. You do read Black Speech, don’t you?”  
“I-I believe they prefer to call it Orcish now, sir,” Ted stammered, “and I’d hardly call myself an expert...”  
“Well, you’re the only one we’ve got who can,” yawned the Archmeister. “Much as I’d love to ignore this, the Urus has made an official request, and I’m sure there’s some part of a treaty somewhere that says we have to help when they ask, or something. I don’t know, and I’d rather not go to the trouble of arguing with them. I’ve got more than enough work to do as it is, so do us a favor and head on up there. Shouldn’t be more than a week or so.”

Ted wound his way through the desks of his fellow scribes that unevenly dotted the main working floor of the scriptorium, hardly noticing where he was going as he apprehensively ruminated on his new quest objective.  
The scriptorium itself occupied the middle two floors of the local library, which distinguished itself from the other buildings in the village by virtue of the three aboveground stories it boasted in addition to a basement. This feature made it especially bourgeois in a hamlet where most structures were limited to only one floor, save for the especially prosperous downtown area where the average on the main road was two. The library distinguished itself further by its unique atmosphere of lazy, comfortable bureaucracy. It featured high-set windows that let in streams of dusty sunlight, tall rows of bookshelves that seemed to envelop wandering readers in a bubble of silence, and a permanent relaxed hush in the air. It was a warm, quiet kind of place, where the machinery of scholarly work ticked along slowly and predictably like a large clock (although they probably didn’t have clocks yet), and the days tended to blend into each other. This was the world Ted was used to, where he had spent most of his admittedly short life so far, so the prospect of leaving it, albeit briefly, was alien and frightening.  
Especially when his destination was a rowdy bunch of Orcs.  
Ted did not consider himself a particularly biased sort of person, and he had to admit his own rather limited experience with Orcs thus far had not given him any particular reason to distrust them, but they did have a certain reputation for violence that was probably well-founded, and possibly even documented. 

…

The next morning found Ted waiting by the side of the road just outside of town, sporting a large rucksack. It had been a damp night, and the dew sparkled on the grass, and wet the dirt and hanging leaves.  
A broad-chested Orc wearing an academic-looking tunic drove up in an ox-cart.  
“You Ted?” he rumbled. “Name’s Durebesh, hop on up,” he continued at Ted’s answering nod.  
Ted clambered up with Durebesh’s assistance, and tossed his pack in the back of the cart.  
“Thanks for helping us out with this,” he said, sounding genuinely appreciative. “It must be a pain in the ass having to drop everything and come all the way up here.”  
Ted made a series of disparaging noises and protests that it was no trouble at all, really, and scribes had to look out for each other, and the like. Durebesh responded amiably, prompting Ted to make inquiries as to his scribal duties. They discovered they had several favorite authors in common, like Neel Gai’mun and Urzz-ula K Le’Gwyn, and were getting on quite well by the time the castle came into view on the crest of an outlying hill.  
Orc clans in this era were organized in a more or less feudal manner: a chief, referred to as the Urus in their native tongue, had domain over all the lands formally belonging to the clan, and he or she as well as their family enjoyed a status comparable with local royalty. The Urus of Clan Muggorah had occupied this particular castle since they had kindly relieved a human warlord of the burden of property upkeep almost a hundred years ago. Like most new homeowners, they had opted to renovate in their own style instead of the original out of lack of respect for the previous occupant. In consequence, the castle was a patchwork of human and Orcish architecture, a squarish blocky base overlaid with the sharp angles and jutting protrusions Orcs tend to favor in their work.   
“Ever seen it before?” Durebesh asked, nodding towards the distant hulk.  
“No,” said Ted, squinting at it curiously. “It’s a bit of a mix of the two styles, huh?”  
“Orcs are very good at mixing with humans…in some ways.” Durebesh winked at him.  
Ted rolled his eyes. “You’re really reaching for that joke.”  
Durebesh laughed, and snapped the reins.

…

The cart eventually pulled up in front of the castle gate. The space in front seemed to have become a sort of informal crossroads, populated by a dozen or so Orcs with boxes and barrels bustling about the muddied ground on various errands.  
Durebesh leaped down from the cart. “Duraz,” he roared at an Orc leading a horse. “Put the cart away, wouldja?”  
“And why can’t you do it yourself? You drove it here,” Duraz replied in a put-upon tone.  
Durebesh huffed. “Because I’ve got to introduce the new scribe to the Urus, dumbass! It’s not a very good first impression to keep him waiting.”  
Duraz did not appear impressed by this argument, but apparently conceded the point regardless, muttering “He doesn’t even know you’re here yet,” as he came to unhitch the oxen.  
Ted retrieved his bag from the cart, and tried not to look like a gawking tourist as he gazed about, an effort at which he mostly failed.  
“Come on then,” said Durebesh as he passed on the cart to his friend, and nodded towards the gate.  
Ted, being a bit of a country mouse, was awed by the size of the front hall, and was likewise awed by the courtyard, the great hall, and the throne room. Unfortunately no records remain of what these rooms actually looked like, so the reader is invited to imagine them for themselves.  
The Urus’ throne wasn’t especially large or grand, but he sat upon it with a quiet dignity that made it seem important. He wore leather armor polished to a rich mahogany, inlaid with intricate patterns in golden thread, and he had a stern face with hair that was starting to gray in the temples. A gaggle of Orcs stood around its raised dais, and watched as Ted and Durebesh entered.  
Durebesh approached the throne humbly, and sank into a deep bow.  
“My Lord,” he intoned in a voice dripping with meekness, “I have brought the scribe, as your Highness commanded.”  
The Urus said nothing, and Durebesh glanced back at Ted to make a quick little “come on” motion with his hand.  
Ted suddenly had the horrible warm prickling feeling across the back of his neck and back that he usually had when he missed a social cue, so he moved quickly to mimic his companion.   
“O mighty Urus,” he addressed to the floor, “it is an honor to be in your presence, and your mighty hall. I hope my work may please you.”  
A moment of deadly silence held for a moment before chuckles broke out from the rest of the crowd in the hall. Durebesh rose guffawing from his bow, and slapped Ted on the back.  
The Urus just chuckled. “He’s just messing with ya. You don’t have to stand on ceremony with us. Great to have you here, Ted, I’m Morag Muggorah. Durebesh you already know, and it’s him you’ll be working with mostly, but there’s also Urag, Uraq, Gruk, Gronk, and Bruzhe,” nodding to a cluster of Orcs to his left, “who’ll be helping you out, as they run printing as well as our accounts. This here’s my brother Murrogah,” gesturing to a large bearded fellow on his right, who gave a friendly nod, “our War-Chief, and I expect you’ll meet mostly everyone else in time. For the moment, we’ll get you settled and you can have a drink with us afterwards. Durebesh, would you show him to his room?”

…

After depositing his bag in his new quarters, Ted joined the others in the canteen, a long candlelit room with rafters and tables made of split logs, such as you might find at a German-American restaurant, or inside a Cracker Barrel.  
It also featured a bar currently being manned by Uraz, who grinned at Ted as he entered, and held up a mug in salute.   
“Here’s something you won’t have tried out on your farm,” he said, handing it to Ted as he climbed up to a seat at the bar.   
Ted wasn’t exactly a regular drinker by habit, but the crushing spectre of social obligation that hung over him at all times had prompted him to do a bit of research on his hosts’ customs the night before, and he was able to identify the crimson liquid sloshing around in his mug by smell.   
“I’m not from a farm, actually, and I know this must be bludgurz, Orcish spiced wine,” he said, taking an appreciative sniff, “flavored with honey and saffron, and a bit of cardamom.”  
He took a pull, and nearly choked. It was like vinegar and liquid flame, and felt like it was going straight up the back of his throat to his nose. His companions chuckled at him as he coughed and spluttered.  
“Maybe you’ve read about it, but tasting it is another thing,” chortled Gruk.  
Not willing to admit defeat so easily, Ted took another, more cautious sip, and found that it was better once he was expecting the burn, with a little portrait of flavors that hid behind the strength. He started to enjoy it more and more as the conversation in the room began to swell like an orchestra.  
Alcohol is a tremendous tool for alleviating social anxiety, and Ted found that any lingering fears of being an awkward outsider were quite dispelled, as he was at the center of the communal joviality as much as any of his new companions. It seemed that having made a fool of himself twice over at the beginning of this venture had quite destroyed his fear at the prospect of doing it again. He was just mulling over the potential usefulness of subjecting guests to minor humiliation upon arrival as a standard social custom when the door opened again to admit the rest of the attendants from his earlier audience with the Urus, including, he was surprised to see, the Urus himself.  
He leaned over to ask Gronk about this, who informed him that the Urus was an elected position, as opposed to a royal appointment, and therefore was expected to eat and drink with his people just as he would serve alongside them in battle. This struck Ted as an altogether sensible and desirable policy.  
Unfortunately, the Urus did not appear to be in as jovial a mood as he was at their earlier encounter, firmly shaking his head with pursed lips while his brother at his side made a series of imperative gesticulations at him that seemed like the nonverbal equivalent of yelling, which seemed incongruous with the fact that his actual words were being whispered.  
Ted was disappointed to see that the introduction of these new factors into the environment caused the party atmosphere to cool down somewhat, and smiles slowly began to depopulate the room as the drinkers took notice of them one by one.  
Bruzhe grumbled as he thunked his mug down on the bar, “I’m getting pretty sick of all these politics getting involved in my evenings.”  
“Politics?” asked Ted.  
Bruzhe leaned towards him conspiratorially, and covertly gestured at Murrogah as he explained in hushed tones.   
“That one became War-Chief three years ago after he fought off a legion of enemies with only a small squad at his back. It ended our feud with Clan Thrakatulk to the east, and made him a hero. He could’ve been War-Chief already, but Morag wouldn’t make it official it until there was no doubt he had earned it, and not just because they were brothers. Unnecessary, if you ask me, everyone already liked him enough. But ever since then, Murrogah’s had to work twice as hard to get his opinions heard, and now word is Thrakatulk wants to get even.”  
“Murrogah wants to take action, but Morag doesn’t?” asked Ted, in an uncharacteristic burst of understanding.  
“Exactly. Morag thinks his brother just wants to relive his glory days, but Murrogah’s whole job is to look out for threats to the clan. I’m all for it myself, it’s been too long since we’ve had a proper fight, but there’s something else.” He lowered his voice even further. “She,” gesturing to a sour-faced Orc woman standing towards the back of the room, “happens to be Ghorza Thrakatulk, daughter of a high-ranking Thrakatulk warrior and the former Urus of Clan Murgh, which has since fallen apart. She was raised here as a war orphan, and Morag is like a father to her, but under the current situation she’s a sort of…political hostage, you might say. She’s no slouch of a warrior, that’s for sure, but Murrogah won’t let her into battle until he’s sure of her loyalty. For an Orc, that’s a pretty big chip on your shoulder. As far as Morag is concerned, she’s just another reason not to charge into a fight against the Thrakatulks.”  
Ted had never read anything about Orcs that suggested they treated war as anything other than a welcome diversion, so this gave him a great deal to think about. As the party started to wind down around him, he clanked mugs with Bruzhe companionably before retiring to his room.

…

His work alongside Durebesh began the next morning, deep in the castle dungeons. The records room they were currently dealing with was a city of parchments under siege from mice and mildew, and Ted’s role in the relief effort was to rescue relevant documents from the battle zone so they could be translated, copied, re-authenticated, and discarded. Durebesh’s staff of three circled in and out periodically with fresh parchment, reference materials, trash bins, and food. It was dull work, but Ted found Durebesh good company, which is always one of the most essential components of a good working environment.  
With all this to occupy him, it was two days before Ted’s conversation with Bruzhe had cause to cross his mind again, which arrived in the form of a scowling Ghorza Thrakatulk making an unexpected appearance in their work zone.  
Durebesh frowned. “What are you doing here?”  
“The War-Chief said I should come help you guys,” she intoned in a voice like steel grating across someone’s skull.  
Ted was wondering why on earth a clan warrior would be ordered by a war-chief to come help two scribes copy old documents in the basement and was just on the point of opening his mouth to ask when Durebesh shot him a warning glance. This made him reconsider the wisdom in asking impertinent questions to an angry Orc, and he promptly closed his mouth again.  
“Here, read through these land deeds, and look for any mention of the word ugulz,” Durebesh said, handing her a stack of papers that had thus far been relegated to the back burner of the work effort.  
The silence that reigned in the aftermath of her arrival gave Ted leave to consider the finer points of Orcish politics in the back of his mind. An idea began to germinate there, fertilized by the awkward silence that fell over the room like snow, and quickened by the necessity of alleviating it. There might be a way to kill two birds with one stone, and make his work zone bearable again in the process. The more he turned the idea over in his head, the more it seemed less like a possibility, and more like a necessity…

Several hours later, Durebesh and Ted approached the Urus again, nervously clutching bundles of mildewed maps. Several minutes of muttered conversation prompted Morag to summon all the castle’s residents to the throne room, and have one of the big heavy oak tables they reserved for special events brought up from the basement. The ensuing conference brought three items to the clan’s attention: firstly, that some of the especially productive farmland to the east currently being held by Clan Thrakatulk actually belonged to Clan Muggorah by virtue of an obscure clause on a crumpled old land deed that had found a new function in life plugging a hole in the record room wall. Secondly, this discovery had been made only that morning by the diligent efforts of the two scribes updating the records room. Thirdly, a messenger pigeon had been dispatched with all haste to Clan Thrakatulk’s headquaters to inform them of this discovery, and the prompt and efficient response of the recipients only two hours later had consisted in its entirety of a single crude drawing of a hand making a rude gesture. The debate that followed this update concerned the appropriate response to this offense, and a frank and wide-ranging exchange of views crossed the air over the great oak table, as did two empty mugs and a small dagger. A consensus was promptly reached that circumstances prompted a violent military response, and everyone left the conference table feeling quite pleased with the democratic process.  
As the conference dispersed, the War-Chief called Ghorza and the two scribes up to his seat, and fixed them with a withering look.  
“Seeing as how it was you two what got us into this mess, I’m counting on you to get us out. Effective immediately, you’re going to help run logistics and planning for this raid. And you,” he said, now addressing Ghorza, “are going to help our guest get acquainted with our way of doing things around here. For all intents and purposes, Mr. Ethelbert, you are now an official member of Clan Muggorah.”  
Ted had always considered it a weakness in fantasy novels when some paramount objective decision from an authority figure functioned as a transparent authorial effort to bring two main characters together, and was about to raise an objection to his new assignment along these lines when he was cut off by the beginnings of what sounded like Ghorza’s objections to working with him. She punctuated these objections by gesturing at him the way one might gesture at a particularly aromatic garbage dump, but was cut off before finishing the first syllable by the War-Chief’s pronounced clearing of his throat. She settled for shooting Ted a grim look before storming off.

Ted was fascinated by the preparations for war, which began almost immediately after the conference. Every empty space suddenly had a purpose: fireplaces became forges, the kitchen started churning out travel rations, and the courtyard became a sparring ground. Piles upon piles of swords, maces, and strange weapons made of what looked like bones began to populate every available surface. The most striking change, however, was in the attitude of the castles’ residents, who walked with a new spring in their step, and a new light in their eyes. The prospect of glorious battle ahead had infused them with new vigor, and sweet anticipation hung over the castle like a heavy fog.  
With Ghorza’s begrudging assistance Ted learned the ropes of his new position. There were weapons to make, repair, and distribute, supplies to pack, and sets of armor to count, and Ted had to make lists and lists and lists of everything to ensure they were fully prepared before sallying forth.   
“You probably didn’t expect this when you took the job,” said Ghorza suddenly, as they were sharpening spears that evening.  
Ted was surprised by this unexpected attempt at communication, but attempted to meet it gracefully.   
“I didn’t know what to expect,” he said truthfully.  
Ghorza snorted. “Bet you thought we were a bunch of slavering monsters.”  
Ted couldn’t think of a good response to this, so decided on a definitively simple “No.”  
“Like you’ve ever had to worry about war, or proving yourself to anyone.” Ghorza seemed more to be speaking to herself now. “Those are just words to you, aren’t they? For us, they’re our whole lives.”  
It was at this point that Ted’s competitive nature seized control of his faculties, which in humans tends to happen at the worst possible moments. He decided the best way to respond to this question would be to pick up a dagger lying on the table to his right by the blade, and throw it at the wall so it would stick quivering between two wood panels, as happens sometimes in young adult dystopian novels. Unfortunately, Ted had no training or experience with knives that would enable him to actually do this, so it merely flew awkwardly at the wall, crashed, and fell sadly to the floor like a really uncoordinated bird.  
Ghorza stared at the dagger lying forlornly on the floor for a moment before starting to laugh. This pleased Ted because this was the first time so far he had intentionally made an Orc laugh, for he had already begun to convince himself it was intentional.  
Thus, the ice was broken, and Ghorza and Ted began to speak genuinely, as friends do. This was a novel experience for the both of them; Ted found that Ghorza was an engaging and funny conversationalist, even if many of her jokes did revolve around beating people up. For her part, Ghorza discovered she rather liked this weird little human after all, even if he did seem more interested in boring legal documents than epic adventures. They ended up enjoying themselves so much that they hardly noticed the sun going down, and Durebesh had to be dispatched to remind them to get some sleep.

The rest of the week was a blur of yet more swords and lists, and Ted found himself feeling more and more a part of the little community of Orcs. This wasn’t enough to prepare him, however, when Ghorza showed up one morning sporting an evil grin, and holding out a quarterstaff the way one might offer someone an ice-cream cone.  
Ted eyed her warily. “What…?”  
“You’re coming with us to the raid,” she said gleefully, “so the War-Chief says I get to give you some basic training so you don’t get wasted.”  
“You seem entirely too pleased with this assignment,” sighed Ted.  
After breakfast they traipsed down to the courtyard, where they found some Orc-sized leather armor that was a bit too big for Ted, and assumed battle-ready stances.   
Ted gripped his staff fearfully. “Don’t you want some armor too?”  
Ghorza grinned again. “Won’t be needing it.”  
The end of her stick came whizzing at him, and struck him painfully on the shoulder.   
“Lesson one: blocking.”  
The next few hours consisted mainly of a series of similarly painful strikes to Ted’s upper body and head, interspersed with occasional bouts of pummels to his ribs and occasional thwacks to his legs. Gradually, he learned to block these as they came, and progressed to learning quick retaliatory jabs, then proper strikes of his own. Ghorza’s commentary evolved from harsh, but analytical criticism to grudging admiration, and eventually praise.  
As Ghorza took a mighty swipe at his head, Ted had a flash of inspiration. Bringing out all he had learned like a swarm of bees, he parried the strike instead of blocking it, forcing the end of her staff to the ground. He followed this up by quickly stepping closer to her and jabbing her sharply in the stomach, which made her stagger backwards. Bringing his stick up for the final blow, he felt a rush of elation. He was finally about to beat her!   
Ghorza dropped her stick entirely, and in a flash was gripping both his wrists. She gave a mighty heave that lifted him clear off the ground for a moment before taking him down like a wrestler, pinning him into the mud.  
This new position put their faces inconveniently close together, and they could each feel the other’s hot breath on their face as they panted for air. Their bright eyes were still locked together with the intensity of combat, and they just stared at each other for a minute as they caught their breaths.  
“You cheated,” said Ted eventually. Ghorza had surprisingly sharp blue eyes, like two chips of ice in her face.  
“Not cheating. Strategy.” Ghorza gasped. “Strategy…beats tactics…every time.” She was a bit more out of breath than she expected. Perhaps she should rest here a moment before resuming the spar.  
It took another moment before their brains became suddenly flooded with all the sensory information they had been ignoring for the sake of the fight, namely that they were lying in cold mud, covered in bruises, exhausted, and hungry. All this was secondary, however, to the fact that they were currently in incredibly close proximity, and Ghorza’s intoxicating weight was pressing down on top of Ted’s very warm and soft body in a rather intimate way. Both their nervous systems seemed to consider this fact of paramount importance, and so sent all sorts of tingling and buzzing electrical signals up and down their clever little biological wires to make absolutely certain that their brains were highly aware of it.  
Ghorza scrambled to her feet. “That’s enough for today, I think. Good job,” she said, making a hasty exit.  
Ted decided he would rest a minute more on this comfy spot in the mud before he tried moving again.

…

Finally, the day of the raid dawned, and Ghorza began it by waiting outside Ted’s room as he changed into the outfit he would have to wear as a representative of Clan Muggorah, embroidered in the traditional clan colors of yellow and blue.  
Ghorza thunked the door with her fist. “Hurry up! The enemy will have died of old age before we get there.”  
“I just finished hemming the sleeves. This tunic is Orc-sized,” came Ted’s muffled voice from behind the door.  
Ghorza huffed. “We’re basically the same size.”  
“Then why is everyone here taller than me?”  
“Maybe you’re just short.”  
This remark was followed by a grumbled invective, but the door swung open a moment later to reveal Ted cutting a not-particularly-impressive figure in Muggorah crossed belts and kilt.   
“How do I look?”  
Ghorza was prepared to make a sarcastic remark, but it died on her lips as the sight of her irksome new friend wearing the standard of her beloved home clan lit up some deep, primitive part of her brain, an old, disused part meant to deal with things like running from prehistoric tigers and making cave paintings. This outmoded set of neurons was hooting in victory at Ted’s raiment, apparently conceptualizing it along the same lines as a flag on a conquered fortress.   
Ghorza told her brain to shut up for the second time that week.  
“You know how to sew?”  
“What, you think it’s unmanly?”  
“I’m just surprised you know a useful skill for once. Before we go, you should take this.”  
She handed him a piece of armor. Apparently meant to be worn on his forearm, it consisted of several pieces of what looked like the ribs of a large animal bound together with tough strips of leather.   
“Very barbarian vogue,” said Ted appreciatively, strapping it on. “I didn’t know you cared.”  
“Shut up.”

The Urus made a short speech before they left for the raid, wherein the military strength of the enemy was disparaged, their own strength was exalted, and a thorough list of all the duly unpleasant things they would do unto the enemy was detailed. The clan demonstrated its appreciation for this speech by roaring, clanging their weapons together, and charging out of the front gate in a seething horde of jagged steel edges.   
Orcs generally prefer to get places on foot, so the actual act of leaving the castle was less like a wagon train or cavalry charge than the beginning of a summer road race, albeit one with lots of swords being waved around, and where being jostled by your neighbor meant being skewered on the random blade sticking out of their pauldron. Ted found it difficult to keep up at first, but soon found his rhythm as the horde settled into its pace, and stuck alongside Durebesh, who looked a bit uncomfortable in his battle armor.   
It took a full day of jogging and one lunch break before they were permitted to make camp, and Ted collapsed into his sleeping bag smelling strongly of onions. He woke what felt like only a few hours later to find breakfast being passed out, and they began to split into their squads for the ambush.  
The War-Chief, resplendent in his array of sharp metal spikes, passed through the ranks muttering confirmations with each squad captain, before stopping at one and staring in disbelief.  
“Problem, sir?” said Ghorza.  
“Who the hell gave you permission to be here, much less captain a squad?” he growled.  
Ghorza made a surprised face. “My name was on the captains list.”  
Murmured assent rose from her troops, which was silenced by another classic withering look from the War-Chief.  
“And who,” he asked, in a deceptively calm voice, “drew up the captain’s list for today?”  
“That would be me, sir,” squeaked Ted.  
The War-Chief looked at him the way a hawk might look at a mouse with a broken leg, but Ted was saved when the Urus interjected: “And why shouldn’t she captain? Do you have some feud with her? If so, get it out of the way now, before the real fight starts.”  
The War-Chief rather looked as though he would like to have it out with fists, but apparently decided against it by storming off to yell at some spear-bearers. Ghorza met Ted’s eyes for just a moment before she returned to her squad, but he could have sworn he saw a hint of warmth there. 

The enemy had apparently reinforced the defenses around the contested area, as there were several ramshackle-looking towers and barricades surrounding the plentiful fields. These offered little to no resistance for the unit Ted was attached to, and the defending Orcs were quickly reduced to a large pile of miscellaneous body parts.  
Although Ted’s actual job here was just to count supplies and casualties, he had decided for posterity’s sake that he may as well record some of the battle, and so had brought along a small piece of charcoal and some parchment to scribble notes and sketches. Some might quibble about the grotesqueness or ethics of reducing another sentient being to garden mulch, but Ted was one of the first in his era to have worked in an office, and therefore knew firsthand that bloody decapitation was far from the worst thing to which you could subject a living soul.

The majority of Clan Muggorah enjoyed themselves tremendously over the course of the day, racking up big numbers of slaughtered enemies, and putting their flag back up over the coveted ground. As evening drew in, most of the larger pockets of resistance had been crushed, so the Orcs withdrew to their campsite to hoot and revel a bit before turning in.  
Ted shared in the triumphant atmosphere as much as anyone, but noticed a distinct lack of Ghorza that became more apparent as it grew darker. It wasn’t until the stars were out that she returned, leading a procession of her bloody troops into the flickering firelight in silence.  
The horde quieted as she entered the camp, heads turning as she silently made her way straight to the Urus, her eyes never leaving his face. Upon reaching his seat, she knelt solemnly, and produced a severed Orc head on a stick, which bore a rather vacant expression.  
The Urus studied her, and then examined the head. In slow, measured tones, he announced, “It is the Urus of Clan Thrakatulk.”  
There was a moment of dead silence before an ear-splitting roar of sheer joy broke out of everyone in attendance, and the whole clan swept forward to bear Ghorza on their shoulders and parade her in circles around the camp for a while. 

The celebrations that followed added two full days to Ted’s stay with Clan Muggorah, as well as an incapacitating hangover to his head. At the end of all this he had recovered enough to travel, and it was with great heartbreak that he took leave of his new friends.   
Durebesh insisted on letting him borrow several of his favorite books, and suggested a trade when they next met, to which Ted agreed happily. Uraz and Bruzhe had one last drink with him, and Murrogah the War-Chief even paid him a visit to compliment his getting one over on him, which had ended up giving them victory in the end. Ted pleaded ignorance of this supposed subterfuge, to which the War-Chief merely laughed.  
Ted didn’t see much of Ghorza for these last two days. He supposed she was busy enjoying her new status as the hero of the day. As he was saying his final goodbyes to the congregation that came to see him off, he was surprised to see her appear, and even more so when she volunteered to drive him home without meeting his eyes.   
The Urus had him kneel, and touched his shoulders and head with a large sword to officially make him a member of Clan Muggorah. This included swearing him to an oath to come when they were in need, to summon them when he was in need, and all that sort of thing. Theoretically this was done to ensure all clan members would protect each other when in danger, but Ted would find it mostly just made it difficult to cancel plans.  
Ted waved goodbye as the ox-cart trundled down the hill and away from the crowd, and turned back around to sit in his seat. He and Ghorza drove in companionable silence for a while.   
“Why’d you put my name on the captains list?” Ghorza finally asked.  
“You seemed a bit glum when the War-Chief put you in the records room.” Ted responded casually. “I thought that might cheer you up. I knew that you could handle anything after you kicked my ass.”  
Ghorza tilted her head in acknowledgement. “True, but there’s been something fishy about this whole raid. It’s a bit suspicious that we just happened to find the deed to the farm right after I got sent down to records. And the fact that it just happened to be my parents’ clan, as well as my adopted father and liege lord’s sworn enemy, what was laying claim to it. As well as the fact that I glanced at the battle plan before we left, and my squad’s path was drastically different than most of the other ones, as it looped around back to where a cowardly enemy commander might think of retreating if he happened to be losing.”  
Ted opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again.  
“And furthermore,” Ghorza plowed on, “I am well aware of the fact that the only person who could possibly have altered the battle plan and forged the land deed, if such things had happened, is the same person who was entrusted with logistics, supplies, and administrative support for this raid, who just so happens to be the same scribe entrusted with drawing up the captains list.”  
Ted vaguely remembered reading about some philosopher at some point who said something along the lines of having cause to regret every time he spoke, but never having regretted staying silent. He found himself feverishly agreeing with this fellow as he attempted to sink into his seat and never be seen again.  
“So I have moved on,” said Ghorza, whose calm tone was beginning to border on menacing, “from facts to speculation. And I speculate that this did indeed take place, and the person who did it was you. So I had to wonder,” laying a hand on her sword hilt at this point, “why you would take the risk of fatally offending a whole clan of Orcs by manipulating us into combat against the wishes of my Urus.”  
Ted’s silence was positively eloquent. Mozart would have applauded at how magnificently eloquent his silence was.  
The sun went behind a cloud.  
“The way I see it,” she said softly. “There are two possibilities. One, you’re just really, really stupid. Or two, you’re a spy.”  
Ted was a bit surprised by the latter accusation, and perhaps that was what prompted him to confess.  
“No,” he said, his voice stronger than he thought it would be under the circumstances. “I just really wanted you out of the records room.”  
A pause.  
“You just wanted me out of the records room?”  
“Yes.”  
“Why?”  
“Durebesh wouldn’t chat with me while you were sitting there all angry. I couldn’t take how awkward it was.”  
A longer pause.  
“You started a war between two Orc clans just so you wouldn’t have to deal with an awkward silence at work?”  
“I also got the War-Chief to trust you,” Ted offered, feeling he should say something in his defense.   
Ghorza stared into the distance in a way that made Ted afraid he had broken her.  
A snort bubbled out of her, which led to a snicker, which further led to a great series of guffaws that left her sides heaving and gasping for air. Ted started to laugh as well at how foolish it all was.  
“Thank you, I suppose,” she eventually said, wiping a tear from her eye. “You…you really helped me out, I guess, even if you are the biggest moron in Middle-Earth.”  
Ted was rather flattered by the superlative, regardless of its tone, and told her as much, so the rest of their ride was suffused with the kind of comfortable atmosphere they had grown used to feeling in each others’ presence.  
It’s a very funny thing when you realize you’ve begun to care for another person. In Ted’s case, he rather felt as though his center of gravity was shifting. As they rode on, he began to feel more and more in the pit of his stomach as though his entire universe was slowly beginning to revolve not around the Earth, as he supposed, or even himself, but through a slow, inescapable, and perhaps not altogether unpleasant gravitational pull, around the Orc sitting to his right. The more he thought about it, or tried not to, it seemed more and more natural that all the stars and celestial bodies in heaven should orient themselves around the point of greatest focus and intensity, and there was no doubt in his subconscious that that was Ghorza.  
Ted was now feeling nervous for an entirely different reason then he was when he was afraid Ghorza was going to but his head off, and as the lights of his village winked on in the distance he hated them for being so near.   
Evening was beginning to draw in now, and the sky was turning a rich purple.   
They eventually pulled up to Ted’s house, and were afraid of the potential for a stark finality that this goodbye carried.  
Ted turned to say something that probably wouldn’t have gotten the message across nearly as well as what Ghorza then did, which was kissing him. Like most first kisses it was awkward, strange, and hesitant, and left an impression more by virtue of novelty than technique. Ted’s biggest takeaway as she drew away was that he could feel her tusks up close, but it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.  
Ghorza’s eyes widened in a way that suggested she had been aiming for his cheek, and that he had turned unexpectedly at the last moment, and oh ye gods she had ruined everything, and Ted thought the best thing he could do to quiet these anxieties was kiss her back, which he did. With the foreknowledge and full participation of both parties it was a far more enjoyable affair, the kind that sent lightning down their spines and stoked a hunger in their bellies, that at once made you feel very calm and safe, yet simultaneously very nervous and excited.

…

The farmers whose land had been under dispute throughout all this hardly noticed that there was a different flag flying over their homes when they woke up the next morning. They did notice the large number of dismembered Orc carcasses lying about, but these only posed a minor inconvenience to their daily chores. As far as they were concerned, one administration was as good as another, and the taxes were about the same either way.


	3. Couples that slay together, stay together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ghorza and Ted have a typical couples' spat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is loosely based on true events.

One of the most remarkable features of daily life in the lands under the dominion of Clan Muggorah was the general absence of thieves, bandits, looters, marauders, highwaymen, gentlemen of fortune, brigands, freebooters, and other assorted tradesmen who took it upon themselves to offer to relieve travelers of their salable goods as a financially appealing alternative than having their throats slit. For whatever reason, the presence of a large, heavily armed military force composed primarily of large goblin-type monsters tended to discourage this way of doing business for miles around. Once every few years, the local union attempted a class action lawsuit against the clan on the grounds that they were causing small businesses to lose revenue, but invariably found themselves stymied by the strict and unyielding deadlines for relevant documentation demanded by the famously complex Orcish legal system. It was like not having to worry about wolves in the forest because you lived next door to a bear cave.

One such wolf, however, who was in fact an Orc himself, whose name happened to be Gunsen the Grotesque, had found a way to circumnavigate this issue in a way he thought was particularly clever. Instead of risking the clan’s ire by robbing their taxpaying citizens, he would grab the cornugon by the horns, and ransom a clan member to the clan itself. He had even found the perfect target, who was now sitting bound and helpless by the fire in his camp. The whispers in taverns and rumors in alleyways that were the chief means of obtaining information for someone in his line of work had informed him that one of the Muggorah Orcs had taken a human as some sort of pet, of all things, and Gunsen’s pointed ears had heard the gentle knock of opportunity at the door. The kidnapping had been simplicity itself, the ransom note had been delivered smoothly, and now all that remained was a quick hand-over and the business would be done. There was only one thing that bothered the kidnapper about the whole affair, and he mulled it over as he regarded his captive in the firelight.

“What?” asked the human.

“Well…nothing really, it’s just that…uh…” Gunsen suddenly felt rather sheepish. 

“What?” demanded the human.

“Well, I thought you’d be a girl.”

A confused pause. 

“Why would you think that?”

“I don’t know!” said Gunsen, now feeling defensive. “I just heard an Orc was keeping a human around, and I just assumed it was a man keeping a woman…”

“Oh, WOW.”

“Well it’s not like there’s a lot of couples like you around,” protested Gunsen, wondering in the back of his mind how his captive had gotten the upper hand on him so fast. “It’s not exactly NATURAL, so I just assumed that if it did happen, there must be some sort of…you know…biological advantage in play.”

“That is just OFFENSIVE,” the human hissed. “First of all, there’s a lot more to a real relationship than just sex, and second of all, you’re feeding into both Orcish stereotypes and restrictive gender roles with whatever creepy little captor/victim fantasy you were dreaming up there…”

“Hold up a moment,” a lizard-type looking henchman interrupted. “You guys are having sex? I thought they just kept you around for torture or something.”

“Well yes, but not the kind of torture you’re thinking of. And I literally just said there’s more to a healthy relationship than sex.” 

“How does that even work with you two?” The lizard man seemed oblivious to the human’s main point in his pursuit of technical enlightenment. 

“Obvious, ain’t it?” chimed in another lizard man, leaning on his spear. “He’s got to stay on top.”

“But if he’s on the bottom you benefit from additional weight and gravity.” The first lizard man illustrated this point by rhythmically lifting his upturned palms up and down. 

The human looked like he wanted to comment on this, but Gunsen cut him off.

“All I was trying to say,” he blustered, trying to salvage his self-image as a worldly, tolerant sort of kidnapper, “was that there’s a natural order to all things, big and small.” He rather liked this phrase. “Cats eat mice, dogs eat cats, and birds bang bees, as it were. So it is with males and females, and I can’t be blamed for thinking whatever it is you and your deviant friend get up to would work the same way.” He nodded, very pleased with this argument.

“If I had a week I couldn’t list all the things that were wrong with that sentence,” the human muttered.

“What about mouth stuff? Do the tusks get in the way?”

“ENOUGH!” roared Gunsen, by now thoroughly frustrated with what should have been a relatively enjoyable kidnapping. “Are we here to ransom a captive, or bicker about weird sex stuff?”

He regretted his choice of words as soon as they left his mouth, since the accumulated evidence thus far would suggest his companions would undoubtedly prefer the second option, but he was thankfully spared this further indignity by one of his henchmen suddenly going wide-eyed and fearful in a way that suggested the ransomee had finally arrived at their rendezvous, and was standing behind him.  
He turned, and found he was correct in this assumption.

“Ah, so you’ve finally arrived,” Gunsen said triumphantly, trying to work himself back up into a threatening presence. “Are you ready to pay up for your pet?”

“No,” said Ghorza.  
“What?” asked Gunsen, a bit flummoxed.  
“Wait, she’s a girl?” asked the first lizard man.  
“PET?!” roared Ted indignantly.

“You shut up,” Gunsen snapped at the human, not in the mood for any more intellectual debates on social virtue. “And you,” rounding back on Ghorza, who stood scowling with her arms crossed. “What do you mean, ‘no’? This is a kidnapping, in case you don’t remember, and there’s a proper order to these things. If you don’t pay ransom, we get to keep him, with the full understanding that we will do horrible, horrible things to him in retaliation.”

“You can have him,” said Ghorza, now looking past him at Ted. “He’s in the doghouse with me at the moment.”

“WHAT?” howled Gunsen.

“Really?” asked Ted, his face falling into an exhausted deadpan.

“Really.”

“Doesn’t this seem a little overboard to you?”

“What, are you upset? Maybe you think I’m not using my better judgment?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that when I said that.”

The lizard men’s heads swiveled from side to side like tennis spectators observing this argument.

Gunsen tried to open his mouth again, but was immediately stopped by Ghorza raising a single finger in his direction without even looking at him, and to his own astonishment he found himself closing it again.

“What you meant is not the point. The point is how you made me feel.”

“ All I said was I thought it was more important to keep my job!”

“But you know how important this is to me!”

Gunsen slumped on a log, pinching the bridge of his nose. In a defeated voice, he asked, “May I at least ask what all this is about?”

“Ted won’t take time off work to go with me to my Urus’ Michelmas feast,” said Ghorza, glaring at him.

“Ghorza won’t accept that what I have to do is important too,” Ted shot back.

“And why does any of this matter in the slightest?” Gunsen moaned, speaking more now to the universe in general than anyone present.

“Because it’ll be our first Michelmas together as a couple, and I want my whole clan to see us together. It’s a big deal because when everyone sees that you’ve got a date at the feast, it means you’ll be spending the whole winter together, but apparently Ted is too afraid of his boss to take that step with me,” Ghorza snapped hotly, a bit of a blush rising to her cheeks.

“Wait, what?” asked Ted, his hostile demeanor figuratively stopping in its tracks.

“That’s the whole point!” howled Ghorza exasperatedly, throwing her hands up. “When you say you can’t take one week off for something like this, it makes me feel like you’re not as committed to this relationship as I am!”

“Oh, sweetie…I’m so sorry,” said Ted quietly. “You’re the most important person in the world to me. I would never want to make you feel that way.”

“Well, lovely that we’ve got that cleared up, feels like a breakthrough to me,” said Gunsen, sensing an opportunity here to bring up the subject of his ransom. “So if you don’t mind, I’d like to return to the business at hand…”

Ted gave a sudden yelp of pain that drew all eyes.

“Sorry, I stuck my hand in the fire by mistake after I finished burning the ropes off,” he said, raising his wrists to show the charred remnants of his bonds falling apart.

Gunsen scrambled to his feet, but in one swift motion Ted darted from his prone position, snatched up Gunsen’s dagger, and stabbed him in a specific point in his neck.

Ghorza’s expression softened. “You remembered the spot I taught you about.”

“Of course I did,” Ted grinned. “I had a great teacher.”

Completely disregarding the soft gurgling noises coming from Gunsen as he slowly choked on his own blood, Ted stood on a log so he and Ghorza would be at equal heights, which made Ghorza’s lips twitch like she was holding back a smile.

“I’m sorry I made you feel like I wasn’t as invested in this relationship as you are, I’m sorry I prioritized work over your feelings, and I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you enough when you said this was important to you,” said Ted, counting off on his fingers. “Does that cover everything?”

Ghorza tilted her head in consideration, a smile playing at her lips. “You could apologize for being dumb enough to get kidnapped.”

“And maybe you could apologize for not being honest enough about your feelings with me to begin with…” Ted began, but was cut off when Ghorza kissed him gently.

“Awww…” said the lizard men in unison, who hadn’t moved.

“And what about your boss?” she asked when they broke the kiss.

“To hell with him,” he breathed, pulling her back in again.

They took a few moments afterwards to rifle through the pockets of Gunsen’s corpse, as well as take whatever gold he had in camp, and Ted remarked how tired his arms were after being restrained for most of the day.

“That’s too bad,” said Ghorza with an evil grin. “I rather liked the sight of you all tied up…”

“Knew it,” murmured the first lizard man.


	4. On the Twin Virtues of Floriculture and Beating Up the Intolerant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Future married life, baby orcs, proselytizers, gratuitous violence, and maybe even a garden, although it's hard to tell if it'll get enough sunlight.
> 
> The word snaga means slave in Tolkien's Black Speech, the cursed language of Orcs, Dark Lords, and Witch-Kings. You'll see why I tell you this if you read on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse is a pale, twisted thing who whispers eldritch secrets in my ear. Also, I'm behind on my Christmas shopping.

One of the most frustrating things about life is the fact that nothing that is created ever functions exactly how it was intended. A hammer, for instance, is created as a tool to drive nails into wood, but also functions as something you trip over in the dark on your way through the garage when you’re already having a rotten enough evening trying to find the one staple gun you haven’t even thought about since you bought it two years ago, but your partner suddenly has a dire need for in order to fix the one nice picture frame you have, and it’s freezing out, and the new insulation you went to so much effort to install has no tangible effect on that persistent draft. In this way, the hammer goes beyond the original intentions of its creators. This applies to living creatures as well; for instance, a higher magical being might corrupt or otherwise alter a group of kidnapped elves or something as part of some fracas with some other higher magical being, and end up turning them into a whole new type of creature solely to do its bidding. Inevitably, this new species will grow beyond the purely martial doctrine their unholy architect had devised for them, and attempt to live life for themselves, on their own terms. The lesson in both these cases is that creation is not a power to be controlled, but a force of nature to be reckoned with, and the creator is merely its humble guide.

This was the philosophy Ghorza was ruefully meditating upon as she cautiously attempted to feed her infant son a spoonful of mashed turnips for the umpteenth time that afternoon. In response, he merely shrieked in what could equally have been an expression of delight, confusion, or rage, and plastered his hands to his head, inadvertently smearing more mashed vegetable matter into his peach-fuzzy hair in the process.

That selfsame foodstuff also decorated the walls, cabinets, and a bit of the ceiling of the kitchen with varying levels of thickness and viscosity. Young Urog was at that stage of his life where he was completely overwhelmed with all the wonderful things he had discovered he could do with his hands, like throw food around, throw his toys around, and on occasion, throw rocks small enough to fit in his hands around. Consequently, his parents had learned to keep a sharp eye on him while outside, or else risk any passing neighbor suffering a surprisingly precise head wound.

Ghorza had viewed these incidents with pride at first, considering them a sign of his burgeoning warrior’s spirit (“I bet he’ll grow up to be a marksman!”), but at this point was ready to let him become an accountant if he’d just put some of his damn food in his mouth for once. It defied logic, she thought, how or why any living being would seemingly intentionally avoid being fed at every opportunity. 

“Urog,” she murmured, scooping out another tiny spoonful, “you sure you don’t want another bite? It’s so yummy!”

Urog seemed lost in his own reflections at the moment, eyes fixed on the ceiling with rigid intensity as he pensively chewed on his fist. 

Ghorza made an exaggerated pantomime of eating it herself, making a loud, appreciative noise that drew the baby orc’s wide eyes and perpetually stunned expression back towards her.

“Mmmm,” she cooed. “Yummy turnips!”

Urog’s curiosity was piqued, and when Ghorza encouragingly offered him the spoonful again, he hesitantly opened his mouth. With all the calm, careful intensity of a bomb squad, Ghorza gently deposited the morsel of mash in his mouth, and felt a measure of triumph as he began loudly smacking his lips in a way that let an acceptably small fraction of his calorie intake dribble down his chin.

Three polite, but firm knocks sounded from the vicinity of the front door, which made Urog effortfully swivel his head in that direction like an unbalanced crane.

“Babe, could you get that?” Ghorza shouted down the hall as she wiped turnip residue off the baby’s face.

“No, I’m changing Batty’s diaper,” Ted yelled back from somewhere. 

Ghorza sighed, stood, and scooped young Urog from his high chair. He peered about with a level of interest in his bright eyes that suggested he had never seen the inside of his own house before. 

Opening the front door, she felt a distinct chill run down her spine as she recognized the unnaturally crisp white shirts of the two orcs at the threshold.

“Hello,” beamed one of them. “I’m Viscerae, this is Squellum, and we’d like to talk to you about our Dark Lord and Savior, Sauron, the Abhorred Dread.”

Ghorza sighed. “Look, we already got blacklisted by Malacath’s Witnesses when they came around last week, so you’re not gonna have any luck here.”

“We’re a separate denomination,” said Squellum frostily, as though he didn’t appreciate the comparison. “May we come in?”

“No,” said Ghorza forcefully, adjusting Urog in her arms. “As you can see, I’ve got a kid to take care of right now.”

“It’ll only be a moment,” pressed Viscerae hopefully. “Even in times like these, it’s never too late for the children of Morgoth be redeemed in the Eye of the Dark Lord.”

Ghorza was on the verge of slamming the door in their faces, but perhaps unwisely was tempted to ask, “Redeemed?”

“Oh yes,” Viscerae hurried to add. “Modern orc society has strayed too far from the family values of our forefathers. We forget the Word of the Dark Lord in our daily lives, and break bread with humans, our ancient enemy.”

“Some have even mated with them,” Squellum shuddered.

“That’s shocking,” said Ghorza flatly, bouncing her baby a little.

“We are a family of Necromancer-fearing Melkorites,” pronounced Viscerae, feeling he was in the home stretch here, “spreading the good news of the Dark Lord, and all we want is to ensure that you and yours are welcomed into His Vats in the afterlife.”

Urog’s gaze drifted over to him, and he raised his chubby little hand into something that was not quite a fist, and pointed at Viscerae in that weird, intense way that babies sometimes point at people in for some reason.

Ghorza by now had a faintly amused expression on her face. “My goodness, I never really thought about whether Sauron would accept my essence into His Vats when I died. I guess I just let the distractions of modern life get the best of my Morgothic values.”

“You’re not alone, ma’am, and we're here to help” Viscerae assured her, the sarcasm apparently lost on him. “We’d be happy to tell you more about the advantages of joining the Church of Sauron, and we have some literature here…”

He was promptly interrupted by Ted, supporting another baby orc’s head on his shoulder, suddenly materializing behind Ghorza and launching into speech with a wonderful disregard for whatever was going on previously at the door. “Babe, I can’t find the Tusk-Teether, did you leave it in the icebox, or…”

He trailed off as he noticed their guests at the door, who now looked rather stricken. “Oh, hi. These are those Dark Lord weirdos, right?”

“So…you’ve got a snaga?” asked Viscerae after a moment, with the air of a man desperately grasping at straws. 

“Nope,” said Ghorza, grinning broadly.

“He’s a snack, then?” asked Squellum, with a rather hungry tone in his voice that indicated he relished that possibility.

“Oh, I’m definitely a snack,” said Ted, winking at Ghorza, who gave him a fond look.

Viscerae’s face chose this moment to apparently regress backwards through several evolutionary stages, and settled on an appearance most closely resembling that of a dying primordial fish, with wide, bulging eyes, and a mouth that slowly opened and closed, but emitted no sound. Squellum, on the other hand, looked like he was inches away from a stroke, sporting a rapidly purpling face and a dangerously rigid jaw. His eyes were rapidly darting back and forth between Ghorza, Ted, and their two babies in a way that suggested he was trying to do math, but didn't like the answer he kept arriving at.

“You perverted harlot!” he sputtered at Ghorza, who was starting to laugh outright. “Manflesh is meant to be eaten, not…not…”

“Eaten? Have you ever actually eaten anyone?” Ted demanded.

Squellum grew suddenly quiet at this.

“This is an unnatural joining, and you know it!” hissed Viscerae poisonously.

“Not according to the Urus,” said Ted smugly, and wiggled his ring finger at him.

Viscerae choked. 

“You freaks better be careful,” muttered Squellum darkly. “Going around like that could get you into trouble.”

Ghorza carefully passed Urog to Ted, who secured him with his free arm. “Oh, buddy, you’re going to wish you hadn’t said that.”

“Abba dababa de ba,” Urog explained to Ted as he grasped at his shirt.

“That’s right,” said Ted encouragingly, “Mommy’s going to clobber that man.”

Ghorza firmly grasped both proselytizers by their collars, lifted them clear off the ground, and smashed their heads together before hurling them headlong into the earth. The hideous squelching thuds and cracks this produced attracted the attention of the baby on Ted’s other shoulder, who heaved her whole upper body in one direction, then the other in an attempt to find the source of the noise.

“Look, Battash,” said Ted, tilting her back towards him in an effort to keep her little form from toppling out of his grip. “Your mom’s beating people up! Isn’t that cool?”

Battash turned towards her father at the sound of her name, and attempted to stick both her hands into his mouth, for reasons best known to herself.

The unlucky evangelists scrambled to right themselves, and made a hasty and undignified dash back to the road, shedding a trail of dirt and grass clippings on the way. Victorious, Ghorza returned to the doorway to relieve Ted of Urog, who hadn’t demonstrated any particular interest in the skirmish, and decided to try seizing his mom’s left ear to see what would happen.

“You know,” remarked Ghorza as she patiently endured this infantile assault, “the divot that guy’s head made in the dirt looks about deep enough for some marigolds. I bet we could have a flower garden here if we wanted.”


	5. The Intricacies of Orcish Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Much has been written by better AO3 authors than me about the ancient Orcish ritual of courtship. Can one fairly inept human take on the tradition, and woo his green tusky sweetheart?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to ignore the voices in my head that constantly whisper "cringe," and continue to write nonsense for the sake of the 8 people who like this story. My best wishes and thanks to you all.

As any Orc historian will tell you, Orcish courtship rituals are an essential part of Orc culture. Usually, these rituals involve gifts, performing feats of strength or heroism, the giving of a symbolic engagement necklace, and helping the object of courtship with some sort of quest, or just their chores if they have no quest to go on at the time. However, if you ask more than one historian in tandem, they will likely give you wildly different answers as to the particulars of the courtship ritual, like the nature of the gifts, the appropriate time frame, and so on. If you ask more than one historian about this at the same time, perhaps at lunch, the conversation will doubtless descend into argument with great haste, followed quickly by shouting and possibly fisticuffs, which will utterly dominate the rest of the gathering, and will make you wish you hadn’t invited any historians to lunch at all. The editor includes these remarks not because they bear any real relevance to the story at hand, but because they wish it widely known that historians are generally a tense, easily upset bunch of characters who will pretend to hear their companions’ opinions on any given topic for about ten seconds at a time in order to draw them into a false sense of security before steamrolling the discussion with their own opinions that they hold to light as inarguable fact, much like film students. 

Just such a debate was currently raging in Ted’s house, near the scriptorium.

Uraz threw his hands in the air in frustration the way one throws their phone at the couch after a frustrating round of Among Us. “You can’t possibly mean he has to leave an actual dead deer on her doorstep?”

Gronk aimed an indignant finger at him. “It shows that he can provide for her, and gives her all the parts she needs to make food, clothes, and tools. It’s the gift that says, ‘Hey, I’m ready to start a home with you!’ That’s how I won Ragash over.”

“Are you an Orc, or a werewolf?” Bruhze demanded. “Besides, Ghorza lives on the third floor of the castle, so she doesn’t have a doorstep. He’d have to drag it up the stairs and leave in in the hallway. It’d be better if he carved her a necklace first.”

“Necklaces are for engagements!” howled Gronk. “I knew that before I grew tusks! If he comes out the gate with that, she’s gonna think he’s a clingy psycho! Are you trying to scare her off before they even have a proper date?”

Ted, rubbing his temples, was beginning to wish he hadn’t invited any of them over at all, and doubtless so were several of his neighbors. In a weary tone, he tried to mediate the debate. “Okay, okay, it seems to me that we agree on some things, like the necklace being important, as well as the gifts, the quest, the chores, hunting a beast, and the…what did you call them? Feats of strength?”

Grumbled assent rose from all present, and Ted cut in before debate could resume. “So why don’t I start with small gifts, like jewelry and daggers and stuff, then the chores, then the quest, then the beast?”

No one seemed to have any particular objection to this plan, judging by the glances and expressions being exchanged around the room, but Urag broke the silence with “And what about the necklace? You know that if your courtship goes well, there’s only one way it can end!”

Ted blushed as hoots filled the room, and quickly excused himself to get more beers for everyone from the kitchen. As he left, Uraz looked around at everyone meaningfully, and they leaned into a football huddle.

“We’ve got to make sure he doesn’t blow this.” 

“What makes you think he’s gonna blow it? Ghorza likes him.”

“Sure, he’s a great guy, but he doesn’t know our ways. Besides, he’s not exactly the party tank, if you know what I mean.”

A hand snaked around the cluster of heads to smack the back of Uraz’s head.

“Ow! I’m just saying he’s going to need a bit of guidance. He’s our buddy, and Ghorza’s our shield-sister, so we want them both to be happy. Are we in agreement?”

Nods and grunts arose in chorus, and the orcs quickly broke apart and returned to their seats as Ted reentered the sitting room, laden with bottles. Conversation was quickly diverted to other topics, and the conspiracy was buried beneath jokes and idle chatter.

… 

Several days later, Ghorza found four pounds of prime veal from the butcher’s shop wrapped in paper in front of the door to her quarters in Castle Muggorah. In fact, she nearly stepped on them, since she wasn’t expecting raw meat on her welcome mat that morning, or any morning really, and had opened the door with the sole intention of going down to breakfast.

Puzzled, she brought it with her down to the mess hall, and drew curious glances from tables as she passed. Seated in the corner booth, Bruzhe and Urag exchanged meaningful looks.

“The whole point of the meat thing is that he has to hunt it himself!” said Urag mournfully.

“Hey, don’t knock a couple pounds of good veal,” admonished Bruhze. “I’d be pretty pleased if someone liked me well enough to leave me some good quality meat.”

… 

A day after that, Ghorza found a dagger on her welcome mat. It was a beautiful weapon, with a wicked blade and a dragonbone hilt, every so slightly curved, and she could balance it very easily on her finger. She confronted the visiting human about it with a grin, twiddling it in her hand.

“I don’t know anything about it, I swear,” Ted defended, raising his hands.

“Where else would it have come from, then?”

“Maybe you’ve got a secret admirer? A really handsome secret admirer, who thinks you’ve got the most wonderful, captivating eyes, and who feels like all is right with the world when you wrap him in your big, strong arms.”

Ghorza rolled her eyes. “That’s too bad, because this is the perfect gift for someone like me. I guess my secret admirer will never get to take credit for it,” she sighed wistfully as she turned away.

Gronk, who had witnessed this exchange from around the corner, slung an arm around Ted’s shoulders.

“You know, you don’t have to pretend not to know where the gift came from, you just have to not be there when she gets it. The point is to avoid pressuring her by giving her space, while still showing you’re willing to earn her love.”

“…Fuck.”

“Only if you’re lucky.”

Gronk retreated, chuckling, under the ensuing flurry of blows from the smaller, but indignant human.

Ghorza was enjoying a quiet evening in her room, settled deep in her favorite squashy armchair by the roaring fireplace, reading one of her favorite books by Daniel of Pinkwater, and concooned snugly in her favorite blanket. 

The sharp rattle of a pebble striking her window shattered this atmosphere of peaceful relaxation.

Her first instinct was to ignore it, and sink deeper into her chair, but found herself unable to focus on her book when a second pebble struck the glass. Groaning, she threw off her blanket, and stalked to the window.

Leaning out into the night air, she recoiled in sudden pain when the third pebble hit her square in the forehead. Through her own outburst of loud swearing, she heard a chorus of voices oohing in sympathy, and one piped up above them to shout, “Sorry, Ghorza!”

Rubbing her throbbing temple, she leaned back out again to glare down at what appeared to be the lone human standing in the grass outside, illuminated in a faint circle of the pale light from her window. “What in Malacath’s name are you doing?”

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” Ted asked anxiously. “Do you want me to bring you some ice?”

“I’m alright,” Ghorza dismissed his concerns with a wave, although her head was aching. “Why are you assaulting my window and my head with rocks?”

“Well…I’ve got a surprise for you, actually, but it can wait if your head hurts.”

Despite herself, Ghorza’s curiosity was piqued. 

“Since you’ve already interrupted my evening, you might as well do what you came for.”

Ted made a hand signal in the direction of a nearby boulder, from which emerged Urag, Gronk, and Uraz, respectively wielding a flute, an Orcish fiddle, and a three-stringed lute. They began to play a tune Ghorza recognized as “When The Sun Sets,” a classic Orc love ballad. 

Ted began to sing in Orcish. He wasn’t great, if Ghorza was being honest with herself, and the guttural pitch the song demanded was a bit out of his vocal range, but she could tell he was putting real effort into it, and he was projecting enough for her to hear him clearly three floors up. 

In fact, she thought, as he continued, it was like he was taking the traditional song, and making it his. His voice caressed words that were meant to be heard sharp and clear, and those lyrics that were supposed to be roared were made soft and intimate. His eyes never left her face either, shining with earnest adoration, which made it difficult to stay annoyed at him, despite her head injury. 

As he reached the end, she felt that even though this same song had been sung hundreds of times before by other lovers in other places, it had been made anew now for her, and her alone. 

She smiled down at him. “That was a very romantic serenade, love, but you and your boys better clear off sharp now.”

“Why?”

“Because the guards don’t know it’s you out there, and they’re about to release the dogs.”

Muffled cursing echoed up to her, making her chuckle as her gallant suitor’s musical aides hastened to heft their instruments on their shoulders and run pell-mell for the treeline. Ted bowed majestically and blew her a kiss before sprinting after them, only a hair’s width ahead of the hounds that flew barking across the lawn in vicious pursuit.

…

“You know, you’re not supposed to hit the girl with rocks either.”

“I know, Gronk.”

“Are you sure? Because it seemed to me like you hit her with a rock.”

“I know I hit her with a rock. I didn’t mean to hit her with a rock.”

“Just so we’re clear, that’s not part of the courtship. The hitting-girls-with-rocks part. You’re not supposed to do that. At all.”

“Gronk, I swear to Illuvatar….”

“If you really want to throw rocks at something, you can throw rocks at a monster to impress her, if you want. You just can’t throw rocks at the girl herself. It seems like you have this weird thing about hitting girls with rocks.”

CLONK!

“Now you’re hitting your friend on the head with a wooden soup spoon. That’s another thing that’s not recommended as part of a courtship. It looks like you need a refresher course in Orcish traditions.”

CLONK!

…

Ghorza found a series of more normal gifts on her welcome mat over the next few days, including some nice furs she added to her bedspread, a bracelet with a defensive enchantment, and a bundle of red roses from Ted’s own garden, which earned him a kiss. 

“See?” said Bruhze, gesturing to their retreating forms as they left the castle one morning for a walk. “He’s doing just fine! All that stuff was his idea, and she loved it!”

Uraz shook his head. “It was my brother what gave him the idea of the knife, and he still hasn’t actually hunted anything yet. By rights, he hasn’t properly showed her his strength, so it ain’t a proper courtship.”

“This is Ted we’re talking about. What do you want him to do, edit a manuscript for her? Or maybe he should write a really big thesis, and give her a co-author credit?”

“No,” said Uraz, his eyes lighting up. “It’s time for a grander gesture than that. We need to take him out of his comfort zone…”

Uraz’s plan took shape the following Wednesday, when the whole gang found themselves deep in the woods in their adventuring gear.

“Now remember,” Uraz admonished, “owlbears are tricky because they can attack twice, with their beaks and then their claws. If you dodge the first one, you’ll probably have to block the second.”

Ted hoisted up his battle pants. “Bold of you to assume I’ll live that long.”

Bruhze had voiced a number of misgivings about this venture, all of which had all sailed cheerfully over Uraz’s head like soap bubbles from a child’s wand on a summer’s day. Bruhze elected to channel his qualms into nervously shifting from his weight from foot to foot, and anxiously resolving to grab Ted by the suspenders and yank him out of danger the moment they ran into it.

The party forged deeped into the woods in search of the owlbear. This took a bit longer than expected, because the rules of questing dictate that whatever it is your heroes are looking for can only be found after encountering some petty obstacles and side quests first, but an encounter with an owlbear usually ranks among these sorts of challenges. Therefore, a quest to actually seek out an owlbear creates what is known as “Campbell’s Paradox,” wherein the hero is trapped at the border between the “known” and “unknown” parts of the Hero’s Journey circular diagram for an indefinite length of time, and ultimately learns nothing from the whole experience, which blatantly contradicts the whole concept of narrative significance. As such, the party became quite bored after wandering around for a while, and the owlbear that burst out from behind a large tree in a screaming whirl of feathers and claws caught them completely by surprise.

…

Ted staggered into the castle courtyard some time later, clutching the owlbear’s severed head in one hand, squinting about for Ghorza. He caught sight of her chatting amiably to some orcs by the forge, and attempted to weave his way in her direction.

In slow motion, she turned to look at him, her eyes widened in shock, and she started to hurry in his direction. There was a curious dreamlike quality in the way her face was slowly dawning into horrified comprehension, and her arms were rising up to reach at him with a speed that suggested she was swimming in molasses.

“What?” Ted thought.

He looked down and saw he was covered in blood, only some of which had come from the owlbear. It had stained his shirt crusty black and damp.

“Oh yeah,” he thought, as the world tilted, and the ground rose up to hit him.

…

The next thing he was aware of was being supremely comfortable.

Slowly rising out of darkness, he was somewhere warm and soft, and there was a weight settled into his left side that he remembered was only there when he was calm and safe and happy. As such, he was quite content to remain wherever he was without thinking about it too much. 

An annoying little part of his brain piped up with the notion that even if he was warm and comfortable and the weight was there, he still ought to have some idea of where he was and what was going on. He tried his best to shoo this voice away, but it lit up other parts of his brain with its concern, parts associated with fleeing danger and being aware of threats, and he was ultimately unable to stop himself from waking up fully and opening his eyes.

He was in a bed, a big fluffy one, in a long stone room with sunlight streaming through tall pointed windows onto rows of other beds. He was mostly dressed in bandages. The weight settled into his left side was Ghorza, apparently asleep, curled up into a fetal position.

The sunlight fell onto her pale green skin softly, her head laid sideways to face him. Her raven hair was strewn about his pillow, leaving one of her big pointed ears exposed. It was rare that he saw her like this, utterly at ease, face relaxed, her lips slightly parted instead of pulled up into a lopsided grin, or drawn straight back to bare her magnificent tusks and roar fierce defiance at their enemies. “If any of those knights that occasionally come around to try and destroy her could see her right now,” he thought, “or when she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe, or when she makes that sardonic little smile she does when she beats you at arm wrestling, they’d drop to kiss her hand and beg forgiveness.”

He scooched a little closer to her, and her eyelids fluttered. He kissed her forehead lightly, and murmured, “Where are we?”

“You are in the medical ward of the House of Muggorah,” boomed an unexpected voice that made them jolt. “And it is ten o’clock in the morning, if you want to know, on April the fourteenth.”

An Orc woman wearing an unimpressed face peered at them upside-down over the headboard of the bed. 

“Oh, hi Cleric Norgol,” yawned Ted. “How’d we get here?”

“The young lady currently curled atop your left shoulder carried you here when you returned from your foolhardy little mishap yesterday,” she said critically. “You lost some blood, but you should be fine as long as you drink plenty of water and don’t overexert yourself for a few days. I want you two out of my place now, I’m never gonna finish my book if you keep pestering me with your petty little bumps and scrapes.”

She bustled away haughtily, leaving a distinctly ruffled atmosphere in her wake.

Ted turned to look at Ghorza, who was by now fully awake, and wearing a scowl that rather made it seem like she was about to bare her magnificent tusks and roar fierce defiance at him. Male instincts are generally useless, but on this occasion they prompted him to draw back a little and try to look small and apologetic, which in this case was the correct response, because she was furious at him.

“You idiot,” she hissed. “Do you have any idea how stupid that was? How worried I was? You could have gotten yourself killed!”

She punctuated this last remark with a relatively light open-palmed smack to his forehead. 

“It’s your custom!” Ted snapped, gingerly rubbing his forehead. “And I got the freaking beast’s head, didn’t I?”

Ghorza found this reply so incensing that she was tempted to hit him again, but she restrained herself out of concern for setting an unhealthy precedent for violence in their relationship. Instead, her voice dropped to a deadly calm, and her eyes narrowed to pale blue slits.

“Do you mean to tell me that you went out hunting for a monster that was way above your class just as a macho thing to impress me?”

“No! I went out hunting for a monster, which I killed by the way, to fulfill the ancient Orcish tradition of doing great deeds to prove my strength, which is a key part of a proper courtship.”

Ghorza pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you have any idea how stupid that sounds?”

“Apparently not,” said Ted, who was feeling the hot, prickly beginnings of shame.

“Not only is that tradition antiquated, stupid, and violent, it is also rooted in patriarchal nonsense. I don’t need you, or any man for that matter, to slaughter monsters for me like some damsel in distress.”

“…Oh.”

“Oh?”

“I see what you mean.”

Ghorza heaved a sigh laden with badly tested patience, and planted her face deep in the pillow. After a moment. her muffled voice struggled out with “It was sweet of you to try.”

Ted perked up. “What was that?”

Ghorza immediately pulled her head back out to fix him with a withering look. “It was stupid and dangerous and I’m still mad at you…but it was kind of sweet of you to try and fight the thing for me if you thought it was tradition.”

The corners of Ted’s lips began to curl into a triumphant smile.

“Hey,” said Ghorza warningly, pointing at his face. “Don’t you go getting a big head here, the point is that you were being stupid and reckless and giving into a tradition that takes away female agency!”

Ted restrained his smile, and adopted a meek expression of regret and shame. “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, what else was I going to do, write you a poem?”

“Would you?”

Ted blinked, not expecting the genuine interest he heard in her voice. “I mean…yeah, sure, I could write you a poem…would that be something you would like?”

“Absolutely it would, you moron.” She punched his shoulder, and he groaned in exaggerated pain. “It would make more sense than an owlbear head, anyway.”

The doors burst open, and Bruhze, Gronk, and the others came pouring in to crowd the bed.

“There’s the human of the hour!” beamed Gronk. “I see your fair maiden was so impressed by your epic deed that she’s already jumped into bed with you! Check it out, we got the owlbear’s skull cleaned and treated for you while you were unconscious.”

Uraz held up a gleaming white owlbear skull. It looked weird and horrifying, being generally bear-skull shaped, but with eerily large eyeholes and a wickedly sharp beak instead of jaws. “That is going to look so cool on your wall.”

Ted was making desperate silencing motions with his hands at them, but it was too late. Ghorza rose from the bed, looking murderous.

“So it was you idiots that gave my idiot the idea of chasing monsters to win me over?”

Gronk looked a bit nonplussed. “Well, yeah…it’s a courtship thing…” 

“You’ve got five seconds to run before I turn all your heads into trophies.”

Gronk blanched. “What’d I do to deserve-?”

“Five…”

Uraz tossed the skull onto the foot of the bed and broke out sprinting for the door, closely followed by the others. 

“Sorry this didn’t work out, buddy, but you’re bound to score some points when you give her the necklace!” Gronk shouted back over his shoulder as he elbowed his way out the door.


End file.
